stealth-like daylight and some other nonsense

There's all sorts of weird stuff to mention.

While my mind wanders without direction much of the time, so too did my feet the other night when I walked to Fulham to see a mate. Yeah, walked to Fulham. From Chiswick. Those who know London might look at that and think "what the fuck?" but it wasn't that far. And with my limited knowledge of bus routes it made far more sense than public transport. Especially the tube, because it would have taken the same amount of time and I would have been more lost than I already was. Because I was lost. Not originally, mind. I pretty much made my way spot on until some weird nagging doubt told me that I'd taken the wrong turn off of Fulham Palace Road. So in correcting my imagined mistake I wandered aimlessly through that weird Hammersmith/Fulham no-man's-land where the street signs seem to be scattered W6 and SW6 with no apparent pattern or reason. Thousands of houses, council estates and mansion blocks, but no lights on in any of them and no people about. I noticed the lack of people because I didn't see anyone I would be too emabarrassed to ask directions from anyway (I am a guy).

In retrospect, it was very creepy. But at the time, The Best of The Proclaimers was pumping out of my iPod, and nothing's creepy when listening to The Proclaimers. Honest. You could be in a crypt watching the lid of a tomb slowly shift, powered by whatever cadaverous occupant within and be delighted that someone else was coming for a boogie.

Powered by The Proclaimers, I made my way back to the street I had been on and should have stayed on and made it, eventually to my mates flat. Where there was beer and a massive projector and a vast collection of DVDs.

So we drank beer and watched The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Considering the film, some other form of relaxant narcotic may have been appropriate, but beer worked pretty well. Neither of us had seen the movie and I can say without hesitation that it's genius. It exists in its own reality and for those 2 hours, you believe in that reality. There's also the whole David Bowie in Portuguese thing running through it - and that rocks. The CD is in my shopping basket at Amazon. Funding issues have not brought it to check out yet. Maybe I'll go up to Fopp today and buy it. I feel kind of in a Fopp mood.

Anyway. Rock on Steve Zissou. Watched Team America: World Police after that and chuckled heartily. Can't believe I hadn't seen it before.

By this point it was 20 past 2 in the morning and it was time for me to walk home. Now, I thought that as I knew where I was going my journey time would be drastically reduced. Fool that I was. I got home in no time - 40 minutes. Or so I thought. Unable to resist checking email before I went to bed, thinking it was about 10 past 3, I was shocked to see my computer clock saying it was 10 past 4. What trickery was this?

British Fucking Summer Time. Or BFST for short. I'd totally forgotten about losing an hour. I felt like a total moron.

So waking up to give mom her Mothers' Day card was harder work than it should have been. And then I had to tidy the Belfry for yet-another-fucking-pop-star that wants to buy the house. And they seemed to really like it. Which is terrible. I don't want them to like it. I certainly don't them to buy it. I want to win the lottery so I can buy it from my folks. That's actually my plan at the moment. As much was winning the lottery can ever actually be a plan. Which isn't very much, really.

If I did though, I'd go back to the Capital Hotel, the place dad and I took mum for lunch yesterday. Two very well-deserved Michelin stars and an awesome menu, bar, dining room, wine list, digestif list as well as superb service combined for an almost religious culinary experience. It also meant dinner was half a steak sandwich. I was going to have a few beers, but mom drank them all. I didn't begrudge her.

It was Mothers' Day after all.